


A Place to Reflect

by wifftins



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Emotions, Other, Personal Experiences, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-01 09:01:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wifftins/pseuds/wifftins
Summary: Writing poetry is my way of venting certain emotions, so I hope you find some interest in these endless amounts of metaphors.





	1. Today, I thought of You

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for my girlfriend. Happy 8 months bby <33

Today, I thought of you.  
  
  
I relished amidst the background commotion, my consciousness taking me into the depths of my vast imagination.  
  
  
You.  
  
  
The sweet, innocent grin that graces your kissable lips.  
  
The gentle contortion of the tendons in your neck as you bless your attention elsewhere.  
  
The glint of life that twinkles in your eyes; the eyes I lose myself in.  
  
  
Today, I saw you.  
Or what I thought was you.  
My brain must have been fooling me and my gullible gut.  
  
  
As I took the seat behind, I studied the duplicate.  
  
  
But as far as I knew, she was no duplicate.  
  
  
She had your shoulders. Soft. Feather-light in complexion.  
  
You came back to mind, and my hands were sweating under the pressure of resistence.  
  
I envisioned us together. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere colourful.  
  
  
A place where time and space had no obligation to interfere.  
  
  
I envisioned your arms circling around my neck from behind, a peep of a giggle and the warmth of your breath tickling my ear.  
  
My hand reaches up and my body leans into the vague temperature that I so-wished to be you.  
  
  
Instead, what my fingers curled around and what my back had pressed into weren't you. Merely the neck-rim of my hoodie and the leather seat I'm couching against.  
  
  
Again, the blue cloud sweeps me into its cold, cold arms.  
  
Reality hits.  
  
I'm alone on the bus with your lookalike sat in front of me, wet hair glued to her slender neck and broken headphones situated on her cranium, her flesh dappled with goosebumps.  
  
  
My mind soon lapses into the clouds once more, holding the touch of your fingers as they intertwine with mine and lips blessing plump cheeks.  
  
I know it hurts.  
__  
It hurts like hell.  
  
But who's a stickler for rules?  
  
  
She's not you; she has a name, a family, a dream.  
  
I can sit there day after day wishing it were you, and hoping you're somewhere hoping the person sitting behind you is me.  
  
But until the day we breathe the same air, I'll continue to absorb your sound and lock it away into a small chest buried in-between my lungs, right beside my heart.


	2. Depression Hits Again

Today, depression hits once more.  
  
It’s not a constant feeling. But it comes in waves.  
A bit like the tide; in and out.  
But when it hits, it sure fucking hits.  
  
And it _hurts.  
  
_ It’s as if a million knives are driving into my chest.  
Like my lungs will capsize.  
My muscles ache, my throat empty.  
  
I’m _drowning.  
  
_ I know when I hear the front door rattle shut and the sound of heels trundling down the sidewalk, I know I’m alone.  
When the silence sinks in, I know the sound I make is mute.  
So despite the hopeless sobs that ricochet from my bedroom walls, nobody hears a thing.  
  
I know so, because they don’t do anything.  
  
Not a gentle knock on the door, not a passing note. Nothing.  
  
So when I cry, I cry alone.  
  
Putting up a front is the hardest fucking thing.  
Pretending you’re something that you aren’t.  
Pretending to be fine with everything; that you’ve let everything go.  
  
Inside, it _burns_. Nothing is forgotten, and nothing is let go. Nothing is okay.  
  
It’s like screaming out into a void of nothing. There’s no space to help carry your cries further in hopes of reaching help.  
  
Sometimes I think I’m better off gone.  
And sometimes that _hurts_ , because right now it feels as though nothing will heal.  
They say time heals everything. But when you’re crying on and off, time doesn’t do shit.  
  
It doesn’t do _shit._  
  
So now I’m sitting here, numb. Everything is numb. Cold. Unmoving. Even the tears that sprint down by face feel numb on the flesh.


	3. Isolation

Waking up alone never felt so dead.

 

The house is empty

The silence is deafening

The covers tangle when I sit up

 

It’s cold.

 

The floor feels like a cold slab beneath bare feet.

The ambience finds its place on the kitchen countertop, swinging its legs back and forth.

The remains of a spider welcomes the presence of death.

 

Looking into the mirror, I see a sunken colour.

Grey, like the melancholy cry of the heavy rain clouds.

The clock strikes seven, and the shower sobs its hot tears.

 

On naked, bony flesh, no hot water changes the cold grey inside.

Outside on the street after fumbling helplessly into garments, I feel at one with the cold.

I double check the lock on the door and say goodbye to the reluctant howls of the beloved mutt inside, before I return to the schedule.


	4. Distance

When you told me you came home with a head full of war,  
I yearned to bring you into my arms and crush you against my chest.  
  
And when you poured your worries to me,  
I yearned to sweep you off your feet and into my hands,  
red cheeks stained by grief.  
  
When we’re sitting here together,  
fingers dancing over plastic squares and hearts intaking the words we speak,  
I yearn to come behind you and wind my arms around your neck,  
loose and featherlight.  
  
When my insides begin coiling into my chest and up into my throat,  
my fingers itch to brisk across your skin,  
to feel that warmth real underneath my knuckles.  
  
When emotion pangs into my back like the hard mattress underneath me,  
I yearn to cradle your head in my lap,  
fingers lost in your head of flowing,delicate crimson.  
  
Distance makes me yearn to interlace our hands between ourselves,  
thumbs brushing over soft, virgin flesh.  
Taking shy glimpses at one another before our heads ajoin to rest.  
  
Distance makes me yearn to cup your neck in my palms,  
to hold your hips and trace random patterns into your shoulderblades as we awkwardly dance to the muffled, cheap sound of headphone music.  
  
Distance makes me yearn to lose myself in your eyes;  
a colour so enthralling it legitimately takes my breath away.  
  
Distance makes me yearn to kiss your lips;  
to feel your breath roll over my cheeks, over every follicle and hair.  
  
When distance takes its toll, I imagine telling you I love you,  
hand in hand.


	5. Having Lived

Everything seems to be falling apart all over again,

and it's been this way since before I even opened my eyes and took my first breath.  
  


Everything is crumbling all over again,

and everytime it happens, I crumble harder.

Everything stands to a still,

and the world stops.

 _Life_ stops.

 

Again, I've woken up to the sound of a churning bottle cap.

Again, I'm faced with grief and anger and isolation.

_What do I do?_

_What do I say?_

_What do I think?_

The first instinct is to wait, breathe, start.

And by the time I stop the drive fueled by anger, I break apart.

Like a hammer crashing down into a sheet of ice.

 

I'm kicking you out,

she said.

I want you gone by the end of today,

she finalised.

 

The muffled voice of my sister isn't any more calming as she questions what is going on.

She's kicking me out.

She already has.

 

At first it came like a tsunami; a wave so strong there was no hope of avoiding its shadow.

Then it settled into the dirt, and it's been like that for a while.

And then it comes back the minute I lift my fingers to draw, to do the thing that calms me down.

Everything comes back into swing, and I'm left with confusion and an indescribable emotion.

 

Nothing's the same.

I'm not comfortable.

Like just then it happens to sink in.

Fully.

 

It's only a matter of time,

time I question when it's going to return;

the claws of darkness.

When they're going to sink into my skin.

 

It's only a matter of time.


End file.
